


Dark Clouds over my Halcyon Days

by mochiboom



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochiboom/pseuds/mochiboom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England had never needed, nor wanted, a hero before, and fairy spirits be dammed if he was going to start wanting one now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Martyr

England's fingers ghosted over the icy windows of his house. His country was in the grip of Winter, and the land was bare and desolate, draped in a great white sheet. No birds sang, and even his spirits that usually kept him company had sought refuge in warmer climates. He was alone.

He shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Seated in a sedan chair, he felt even smaller than before, and the house grew bigger every time he was in it. Two consecutive World Wars had broken the aged country, and he had lost the use of his legs a long time ago. Hands that were numb with cold pushed at the wheels of his chair, and slowly, he inched forwards.

The telephone was temptingly close, it would have been easy for any lithe person to simply walk over and pick it up, but it took England five frustrating minutes before the tips of his fingers closed around the enamel bracket. He paused.

_Who should he ring?_

He wasn't in the mood for France's taunting, nor Sealand's incessant chatter, nor China's quiet sarcasm.

America it was then.

The phone rang several times before it switched to answer machine.

'Hi! You've reached America's house! Unfortunately, I'm out doing awesome heroic deeds right now, but leave a message and I'll reply when I can!'

The message tone sounded, but England remained silent. He replaced the phone back onto its stand and stared out the window.

"I don't want to be alone in this house." He took a shuddery breath and forced the chair forwards.

 

The air was cold and his breath billowed in icy clouds in front of his face. He shivered and clapped his gloved hands together in an attempt to create some warmth. The snow was bright white; almost blinding and he gazed at it in some kind of hypnotic trance.

Suddenly, a wave of resolve washed over him.

_I want to walk._

England knew it was hopeless; the doctors had told him he would never be able to stand, let alone walk. But he hand been trapped in that chair for so long, it felt like a prison. He gripped the handles of the chair, and, using all the strength he could muster, forced himself off the seat.

The effect was immediate; his legs began to shake uncontrollably and threatened to collapse, but he didn't give up. He wanted to stand tall, like the proud nation he had once been. Still clutching the chair, he drew himself into an upright position, and nearly cried when he found he was able to do so. His knees trembled in protest and his lips were blue with cold, but sheer adrenalin kept him on his feet. He forced his legs forwards, only managing to move around a foot or so from the chair. But it was enough. He had done it; he had walked.

Oddly enough, he felt neither the urge to cry out of joy, nor laugh. Instead he found himself standing stock still, just relishing the feeling of standing again.

He stood still; swaying, for some time until his knees stopped shaking and the adrenalin wore off. Suddenly he was aware of how cold it was. It had started snowing again, and tiny flakes gathered on his hair like glitter. He felt cold right through to his bones, but paid it no mind; it didn't hurt. He would stay out a little longer.

A little while later, his resolve began to waver. He couldn't feel his feet, and he was beginning to lose circulation in the tips of his fingers. He turned around, and began to make his way back over to his sedan chair, when his legs decided they had had enough. His right foot slipped out from under him, and he went crashing down onto the ground, right leg folded beneath him.

He swore under his breath and drew his hands into fists on the frozen ground. He was stuck, and he knew it. There was no way he could muster the strength to lift himself up and into his chair; he couldn't do it alone. There was a chance of dragging himself back to the house, but the garden was long, and covered in snow. He would freeze to death before he got there. His final hope was that someone would come and find him, but who would that be? Only America would bother to come and find out why he wasn't answering his telephone, and the younger nation was busy.

He was going to freeze to death in his own back garden, only a few hundred metres from his home. That thought made him want to cry and laugh, at the same time.

He wrapped his arms about his chest and shivered, the cold of the snow was seeping through his trouser leg and bit at his flesh. Tugging one of his gloves off, he found to his horror, that the skin on his right hand was icy blue, and he was unable to flex his fingers.

Now he wanted to cry. A few tears escaped from underneath his eyelids, but froze the second they made contact with the outside air. He shoved the frozen hand into his armpit, wincing as the icy digits made contact with the heated skin of his shoulders and chest. His breath fogged around him and his chest began to ache. Shivers wracked his body and made his teeth chatter and his head ache.

_How long had he been stranded out here?_

It felt like hours

 

The snow was falling thicker than ever, and England soon found little piles of it, settling in the folds of his cloths. Angrily, he tried to wipe them away, but the more he swept off, the more it was replaced with. The already grey sky darkened, and the air grew colder still.

England's heart beat frantically in his chest; he didn't want to die alone out here.

His breath came in heaving gasps as he clutched his arms to his chest and fell forwards into the snow. The cold hit him like a smack in the face. His cheek numbed immediately, and that only made him more panicked. He writhed in the snow for a few minutes, half-delirious with fright.

Presently, his breaths slowed and he lay still, watching as the snow piled higher and higher around him. His vision misted, and all he could see was a vast expanse of white, with a large, dark smudge that was his house.

He thought he vaguely heard a voice calling his name, felt hands on his face before he slipped into unconsciousness.


	2. Lacrimosa

America's day had started out brilliantly. Firstly, he had rescued his beloved brother's teddy bear from the huge dog next door, for which his (also bespectacled brother) was eternally grateful. Then, while he was out buying lunch –hamburgers- he helped an old lady with her (very heavy) shopping bags. And lastly, when he got home, he found his eternally grateful, and incidentally also bespectacled brother, had made him dinner. And that dinner was hamburgers. And coffee. Both being America's favourite foods.

Sometimes even America had to wonder why he wasn't as fat as a house.

"Oh, Brother?"

America looked up, mouth filled to the brim with food.

"You missed a call from England while you were out."

 **That**  caught America's attention. England hardly  _ever_  phoned. He swallowed and wiped his hands on a napkin.

"Did he leave a message?" he asked.

Canada looked uncomfortable.

"Well…yeah…he did."

"So? What did it say?"

Canada stood up.

"It didn't say anything, Brother. It was blank.  _Completely_ blank."

America's heart fluttered in his chest.

_What if he's been kidnapped, or…or.._

His heart jumped straight up into his mouth then plummeted down to his boots. A horribly cold feeling washed over him.

"He…tried to walk." He murmured.

"Brother…?" Canada cautiously approached the older man.

America snapped his head up and grabbed his younger brother's shoulders.

"When did he leave the message?" He cried, fingers digging painfully into Canada's flesh.

"Umm, about…11 o'clock this morning? Please, brother you're hurt—"

In a flurry of wild blond hair America shot around the house like a tornado. He shoved his boots on and pulled his jacket over his shoulders.

"Bye Mattie!" he yelled and slammed the door shut.

 

America fiddled with the sleeves of his jacket in frustration as he stared out of the airplane window.

"Sir," an attendant spoke and he looked up. "We'll be arriving in approximately an hour."

America groaned.

"Can't you make this thing go any faster?"

The young lady looked surprised.

"Well, we're currently flying at the recommended speed for all passenger planes, sir" she blurted out, flustered.

"To hell with 'all passenger planes!" he snarled "Listen to me! Do you know who  **I** am?" he questioned in exasperation.

She shook her head mutely.

"I am Alfred Jones. I. Am. Your.  **Nation!** "

She blanched in horror.

"Oh! Um…I'm so sorry sir! If you had only mentioned earlier!"

She hurried away.

"I'll see what I can do!"

America sighed and slumped back into his seat.

_Wait for me England._

_I'm coming._

 

The air was icy cold and the ground thick with snow when the plane touched down. America shuddered and yanked his collar higher up around his chin.

He walked briskly into the airport terminal, then bolted through the building and out the other side. The place was deserted; no taxis to be seen, so he took off running full pelt, down the street.

America knew the way to England's house; he'd been there enough times to have memorised its location, but the time it took to reach it nearly doubled because of the treacherous conditions.

Finally he arrived, panting and covered in snow. He hammered on the door.

"England! It's me: America! You okay?"

The house stood still and silent, its grounds covered in white flakes.

Despairing, America dug around in one of the few flowerpots outside the front door and fished out a grimy key. He jammed it in the lock and turned it ferociously. The door flew open and America stood looking into an apparently empty house.

"England?" His voice echoed around the room and he stepped into it, tramping snowy boot prints on the older nation's carpet.

He carried on into the living room, where he noticed the phone hanging off its bracket and  **England's sedan chair was missing**. He cast about the room.

_His scarf is gone too…_

America's eyes widened.

_Oh god no…!_

He ran to the window. All he could see was white; the ground was covered in nearly a foot of snow. Squinting, he pressed his face to the window. He fancied he could make out a lump in the flat expanse of white, but he couldn't be certain. He fished around in his jacket pocket for the pair of binoculars he always carried about his person.

He held them to his eyes and, after some adjusting; he focused in on the lump he'd seen previously. His heart lurched. It was England's chair.

The binoculars thudded to the floor and lay there, forgotten, as America raced out of the house.

The snow was falling even heavier now, and America struggled to keep up a constant speed. He seemed no closer to the chair than he had been when he set out, but he soon reached it and leant on, gasping for breath as he searched the area for any trace of his former adoptive father. His eyes registered a shock of blond hair and he nearly fell over in a mixture of relief and panic.

He dropped to his knees beside England, sweeping the snow from the other's face, and lifted him clear of the icy ground.

The older man was unresponsive and very still, but America caught his pulse; weak but steady, throbbing in the side of his neck.

He hefted the nation into his arms and lurched to his feet; staggering under England's weight. England's head lolled to one side and America nearly blanched himself when he saw just how  _pale_  the other was.

"This is hardly the time to be sleeping England!" He said, as he started to trudge back to the house.

He coughed, and his chest stung. It took a while for America to register that he was shivering.

 _Better get a move on, then_.

 

Just as he kicked the door open, it occurred to the bespectacled nation that perhaps he should be a little more careful with England's property, but as England shifted in his arms. A pained moan escaping his lips, America decided he need not bother. Mindful of England's head, he sidled in through the door and kicked it shut behind him, trapping the cold of Winter outside; where it belonged.


	3. Sabat Mater

England was warm. It was as if the snow around him had melted and the sun beat down upon his tired body. He ached all over and his head throbbed; he must have hit it. The heat was stifling. He shifted, trying to free himself from the cloying heat, but to no avail. When he tried moving his arms, he found them sluggish and heavy. Nothing seemed to want to work anymore.

The incessant heat beat at his eyes, but, despite how much he longed to open them, he just was not strong enough. Restless, he turned his head to one side, in hopes of getting away from the heat. Another wave of heat rolled over him and he shuddered.

He just wanted to wake up.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

America glanced over in concern as England slept; wracked in the throes of a high fever. He dropped the dustpan and brush; he'd been trying and failing to clean up England's house after he'd tramped  **two** set of snowy boot prints through the house and walked quietly over to the sofa.

Concern embedded itself in his features when he took in England's pale face. Gently, he brushed the older nation's sweaty fringe back from his face and laid a hand on his forehead. He remembered England doing the same thing for him when he was younger.

"It's okay England…it'll be better soon." He murmured, in an attempt to soothe the older man. England's breath came in short gasps and America frowned.

_How was he supposed to breathe properly like that?_

Then the penny dropped; England was overheating. And it was only natural he would. In his panic, America had heaped all the blankets he could lay his hands on, onto England in an attempt to warm him up.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he began to remove the twenty or so layers piled on top of England's small body. He sighed in relief when the other's breathing slowed.

Much better.

Glaring in distain at the brush and pan he'd abandoned earlier, he settled himself into a chair beside the sofa. His eyes were itchy with lack of sleep, and it occurred to him he'd been awake for almost an entire day. He scrubbed at his eyes with his fists and winced when they stung.

His eyes threatened to close, but he shook himself awake. He needed to stay conscious for England's sake. Again, his eyes drooped, and it took an almighty effort to keep them open. When they closed for a third time America gave up.

His head drooped onto his shoulder and he fell silent.

Outside the snow continued to fall. Piling deeper and deeper until the abandoned sedan chair out on the lawn was almost buried.

 

England opened his eyes.

His gaze fell on a slouched figure in a chair beside him and England tried to raise himself into a sitting position. His arms shook with the effort, and he collapsed back onto the pillows, scowling at his weakness.

America mumbled something and England turned to watch him. The younger country was (rather ungracefully he might add) slumped in one of England's kitchen chairs. The ones that were renowned for being extremely uncomfortable.

England frowned and tried to tell' _the idiot nation to wake up_ ', but his valiant efforts resulted in a coughing fit. His throat burned, his vision blurred as he heaved in a lungful of air.

America was awake and at his side in an instant, running a hand on his back and muttering soothing words in his ear. England's hand grasped at the other's shirt and he clutched it tightly as he just tried to _breathe_.

Presently, his coughing stopped and he drew in a shuddery breath. America was silent for a while, before he removed himself from England's grip and stood. England glanced up at him, and was startled to see that the other nation looked angry. It was strangely nostalgic.

America's expression mirrored the same expression that England's face bore almost two centuries ago. He could see anger, and pain.

"Why..? America whispered hoarsely. England lowered his eyes to the floor. He knew this question had been burning in the back of his head ever since he had found his father, lifeless, in the back garden.

He sighed. "Because…" he paused and looked out the window; out at the snow.

"I am tired, America."

"You're tired?" parroted America in confusion. "Why don't you just sleep then?"

England cracked a bitter smile. "I am tired…of  **life**. America. I wouldn't expect you to understand that feeling yet." He looked his former charge straight in the eyes, and the swirl of emotions America saw in them made him strangely afraid. It was easy to forget sometimes; just how  **long**  England had been alive. How much he had seen.

"I am dying, America" said England. So quietly it was almost a whisper.

"But… you-!" America stuttered. England held up a hand.

"You  **know** this is true. Do not deny it. You've seen the news; recession, sickness, abject poverty." He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. "I will not last much longer at this rate."

America stood stock-still; the news England had just sprung on him felt like a kick in the teeth.

"But…" he stammered. England looked up at him with pity. "I don't want you to…." He choked on his words, and much to his embarrassment, he found himself on his knees in front of England, weeping into his shirt. He only cried harder when he felt England's thin arms encircle him and hold him tightly.

He beat his fists miserably on England's chest. He wanted to claim this was all some strange dream; he wasn't awake, none of this was  **real**.

But he knew then he would be lying to his heart. Heroes don't lie to themselves.

He stopped crying and rubbed the back of his hand across his face.

He looked up at England, smiling through his tears.

"I'll protect you, England. I'm a hero! It's my job!"

England smiled at him and mussed his hair.

"Git." He murmured fondly, and closed the distance between their lips.

"Thank-you."

**Author's Note:**

> Omg old!fic much...


End file.
